


Iced Stoli

by helens78, valuna



Series: For Alec [3]
Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-16
Updated: 2004-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna/pseuds/valuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vodka plus bloodplay equals... par for the course with James and Alec.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iced Stoli

> _When he's out it's a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.
> 
> When he's at home it's just the Stolichnaya, and he takes it while he's making his way back to bed for the night.
> 
> Alec.
> 
> Alec, and the taste of Stolichnaya on his skin. The way Alec shivered, hands twisting under silken rope, while James tipped the shot glass a fraction at a time. Ice-cold rivulets of vodka working their way down Alec's skin. The cold of the liquid as James licked it up, drawing his tongue up Alec's chest, while Alec whispered and swore and cursed at James for teasing.
> 
> It's a tease, still, this taste of vodka late at night. It doesn't come with the hint of sweat or the rich copper tang of blood that Alec brought with him so often, or that James drew out of him at one time or another.
> 
> He doesn't drink to drive the memories out of his thoughts. He doesn't drink to drown in them. He drinks because he doesn't have another choice. Or because he made his choice years ago when he set the timer for three minutes.
> 
> _

**Note left on hall table on top of a coil of silken rope and weighted down by a beveled Ukrainian vodka glass:** __

> _There's a bottle of Stoli in the freezer, James. I'm in the bedroom. In case you feel the need to drink tonight._

James runs fingertips over the rope, closes his eyes as he lets out his breath. His fingertips dance over the note, and he feels the impression the pen left on the paper as he traces over the words.

He takes the rope, and the glass, and goes to the freezer for the vodka. And then he makes his way upstairs to Alec, already imagining the taste of Alec's skin and Stoli, the brilliant red of rope burn.

Alec is waiting, quietly, stretched out on the bed, naked and aroused just at reading James' words. He recalls, too vividly, the ritual of vodka and flesh. How the chill would insinuate itself through his skin, invade his soul and make him drunk with need. He wants to not remember it, but to know its touch again. It's a little thing to ask. Of himself. Of James.

James sets the rope and the vodka down on the table, and strips out of his clothes at the side of the bed, eyes gliding over the sensual portrait Alec's providing.

Things are different. Time has passed. But the low twist in James' gut is exactly the same as he remembers, and the need he's feeling -- if anything, that's sharper than before.

"Good evening, Alec," James murmurs. He opens the Stoli and pours a half-inch into the glass, enough that he'll be able to control the stream of it easily. Next it's the rope, and James comes up on the bed, straddling Alec's chest while he ties the firm knots that will keep Alec's wrists in place.

His cock is hard, heavy against the planes of Alec's chest. Nearly close enough to reach for. But not quite.

"James," Alec says, almost a whisper. He sucks in a breath when James straddles him. So close, but still so far away. A lifetime away. A full three minutes.

He allows James to take his wrists, to wrap the rope around them, tie the knots. He allows James these pleasures, these minutes of the past. He allows himself to be taken back, down into the spiral. His tongue slips out, seeking what it can't have, the hardness Tantalus himself would beg for.

James slides back down Alec's body, fingers tracing the long lines of muscle in Alec's arms. The path of his fingertips glides up, over Alec's neck, and he cups Alec's face in both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks.

Smooth and rough. Clean and scarred. Darkness and light. All because of him.

It's all Alec can do not to pull away, not to turn his face out of James' touch, to let James' thumb trace the contours of the scars. But it's part of him, the few square centimeters of his body that belongs uniquely to James. And he can't deny the owner trespass of his property.

So, instead, Alec shivers at the touch, closes his eyes. "Your handiwork, James," he murmurs against his will, the words tripping from his tongue with reverence where there should be only animosity.

There are other scars. They're both wearing them. Marks they earned in fights, in missions, for England. James leans forward and rubs his cheek against the rough skin on Alec's face. _This one is for me._

"James, please." Alec doesn't know what he's asking. Don't touch. Touch more. _Consume me. Break me down into so many pieces that I'm no more complete than the shards of a kaleidoscope._ He pulls against the rope, the silky threads sliding into a comforting pattern of rub, abrade, mark.

"I will," James promises, answering the words Alec hasn't given him, the pleas he hasn't made. "I am." And he pulls back to reach for the vodka, still colder than ice on the nightstand. Rests the heavy base of the glass against Alec's side, just under his arm, a place that hurts enough to make a man scream if he's hit there, hurts worse if he takes a blade there. The cold of the glass is sharp, and James holds it there longer than he needs to in order to make his point.

The iced Stoli is sharper than a blade, but it sears rather than cuts, its mind-numbing chill boring through Alec's flesh. He jerks, not of his own will, as if he had any will at the moment, then relaxes and is just warming to the numbing cold as James pulls the bottle off. He bites down not to ask for its return. He knows better is coming.

James brings the glass up to the center of Alec's chest and tips the rim of it. Slowly. He can see the cohesion in the surface tension of the alcohol as it moves, can see the liquid cling to the lip of the glass, bead, and then spill over, a thin stream over the center of Alec's chest, running down his body towards his navel.

It burns as it strikes Alec's flesh, as surely as if it were hot wax from a dripping candle. It scores a line down Alec's chest, as if it were cocaine being cut on glass. It races to pool in Alec's navel, mercury drawn back to itself after being spilt. So begins the concerto of pain playing in Alec's brain.

James starts at Alec's stomach, breathing cool air over the line of alcohol as he works his way up. At the center of Alec's chest, he begins taking it back in, tasting the warmth of Alec's skin and the sting of the vodka, one inch at a time.

Alec sucks in a breath as James whispers out wordless pleasure over his stomach, the muscles clenching and tightening by instinct against, or perhaps into, the touch. He jerks into the rope's hold, daring to mark, reform the chalice from which his lover drinks.

After he's licked the last traces of liquid off Alec's skin, James traces a finger down the slight red mark left by the chill of the vodka. It'll be gone soon enough; the marks from these scenes are always so fleeting, so transitory. His finger glides up and is joined by the rest of his fingertips, both hands sliding up the warm skin of Alec's shoulders, thumbs tracing a line up and down either side of Alec's neck.

"You wear pain so beautifully," he murmurs. "You always did."

"Only your pain, James." The touch, a near massaging move, should be relaxing, comforting. All it does is set Alec's body on fire, increase his yearning. "Every mark you've made, from the first one till now, is finely chiseled on my soul."

_Vertigo._ James goes quiet as the words settle into him, keeping still until he can sift through their meaning and the feelings they draw out of him.

"Sculptors," James murmurs, "chisel away at their marble canvases. Taking away the parts that don't belong." He breathes out. Breathes in. Feels the warmth of Alec's neck under his hands, the pulse of Alec's blood under his thumbs. "Cutting the stone away until what's left is pure and made new."

He leans forward, until his lips are at Alec's ear and his breath is warm heat against Alec's skin. "Do you still sleep with your knives nearby, Alec?"

Alec swallows hard and can't fight back the tremble at James' words, their implication. _Sculpt me, James. Remake me._ "Pillow." Alec barely gets the words out as James breathes against his ear. "Always close at hand." He won't beg for it. Not aloud at least. Not yet.

"Good," James responds. He runs fingertips over Alec's cheek, expression closed as he traces the scars again. Last time Alec's sculptor was careless. This time James intends to offer precision. Clarity. Perfection.

His hand slides away from Alec's cheek, and searches behind him, under him, under the pillow, for the knife in its sheath. "Always close at hand," James murmurs, echoing Alec's words. His eyes search out Alec's, and he whispers truth and hope in the same breath. "Some things, Alec, will never change."

"And some things will change." Alec meets James' eyes, implied consent for whatever is to come. "With the right touch, James."

James slides the knife out from under Alec's pillow. He holds it up, checks the edge. Perfectly sharp. It could nearly cut the air.

He sets it aside, briefly, and leans forward again, cupping the back of Alec's neck in his hand. His lips seek Alec's, and no permission is asked; his tongue slides in, warm and determined, more demanding than coaxing, the taste of Stolichnaya still sharp on James' breath.

Too intimate, the Stoli-kiss dissolves what will Alec might have left, burns it off in an alcohol vapor that swirls into the recesses of Alec's brain, dredges forth memories not sought, of a kiss in the snow before three minutes was all the world had left.

Alec yields, wrapping his fingers around the rope to keep himself from falling too far.

Pushing back up, James reaches for the Stoli and the blade, holding the blade above the curve of Alec's stomach, tipping the vodka over in a quick line that paints gleaming steel with clear drops.

The drops fall, one at a time, fast and hard as rain, onto warm, golden skin and solid, slender muscle. James tips the knife in the air to make certain he's covered both sides with the vodka. He blows on the blade, gently, watching alcohol evaporate.

Raising his head slightly, Alec studies James' careful moves, how the long fingers caress the blade's hilt. He follows the trail of vodka droplet from bottle to flesh, hissing with desire as each makes contact. His tongue slides out over his lips at the anticipation coiling inside him. He wants to speak, but the words die in his throat, four letters best left out of the air between them.

The glass goes back to the nightstand, and James rests the blade against Alec's abdomen, dragging the flat of it down his skin in a sharp scraping drag. It's not enough to cut; it's not even enough to bring up a warm red line. Just enough to have cold metal against Alec's skin, and to skim through the few drops of vodka that haven't burned off into the air yet, slicking the surface with clear liquid again.

Alec arches into the blade's touch. He wants its edge, not the flat. It's the perfect analogy to his life with James. Alec walks the blade's edge, never content to just slide like the vodka along its flat surface. And sometimes he pushes James off the flat, balances him on the edge, brings him over into the spiral toward the blade's tip.

"Please, James," Alec whispers out when his flesh cries for more, when his brain succumbs to the desire to drag his lover back into the fire.

_There._ James exhales, softly, and brings the knife up to the center of Alec's chest, letting the blade hover for brief moments as he decides where and when to make the first cut.

It's a long, shallow cut, starting at the center of Alec's chest two inches below his collarbone, dragging across nearly to the muscle under his arm. Inch after inch, blood welling to the surface in a thin stream, the cut not quite deep enough to make the blood pool and spill over, and James' hand has never been steadier. Alec has never been more beautiful.

"Yes." It's a hiss as the blade makes contact, breaks through the skin. Alec's mind ricochets through the esoteric, philosophical retorts, about being James' canvas, the uncut marble. They pale when he thinks on the reality. James' hand pulling the blade across his flesh, marking him.

The sting is pure, accentuated by the last vapors of vodka. Alec smiles, knowing it's just the first cut.

James stops once the first line of blood's been drawn, and rubs his thumb across it. He brings his thumb to his lips, taking in the rich copper taste that belongs only to Alec. Another quick swipe with his thumb, another brush of red against his lips, and now his lips are bloodstained, and he leans forward, brushing his lips against Alec's to smear, stain, and share sensation and flavor.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The sight of blood repulses, turns the stomach. For normal men. The sight of blood, Alec's blood, should have him begging for James to put down the knife. But Alec Trevelyan doesn't abide by the laws of physics.

For every drop of blood James draws, there is a deep, resounding chord struck in Alec's soul that cries out for more. It reverberates through his chest, arches his spine and draws the slightest of hitched breath when firebrick-hued lips smear his.

James pulls back and looks into Alec's eyes, seeing the broken-glass mirror of himself in his oldest friend, his rival, the only man who could put him on his knees with a look and the only person alive who reminds James that there are things in life for which _regret_ is the only suitable response.

He goes back to the nightstand for the Stolichnaya. The taste of vodka mingles with the taste of blood, but the alcohol is overwhelming.

James holds it in his mouth and settles himself on Alec's body, stretching out on top of him. He presses his lips to the cut on Alec's chest.

Stolichnaya spills out over Alec's flesh, and James licks up blood and vodka together, letting the tastes linger and mingle on his tongue.

Even the warmth of James' mouth doesn't take away from the chill of the Stoli, the sting as it floods the open wound. The dueling sensations mangle his mind. "Pazhalsta, ti nuzhna mne," Alec spills out in muttered Russian. _Please. Need you._

James is already reaching for what he needs from the nightstand, nudging Alec's legs wider apart with his knee. He slides a hand between Alec's legs, fingers slick, and guides them inside him, twisting three fingers at once in a rough corkscrew that moves in and out of Alec at an agonizingly slow pace.

James loves this part. Loves the stretch of Alec around his fingers, the look on his lover's face that holds anticipation, a brief flash of pain, inestimable pleasure. He loves being able to take all those expressions in without the distraction that comes from having his cock deep inside Alec, and he takes his time, never quite letting Alec adjust to his fingers before twisting them, rubbing his knuckles mercilessly against the spot that sends sparks streaking up the back of Alec's spine.

"Dobrinuzhnabolshe." Alec's litany is a slur of consonants and harsh vowels flung out as his body stretches to increase the contract, force James' fingers deeper. The creases at his wrists, once faint lines in the flesh, are etched by rope, his sculptor's tools chipping away at their creation.

"Bolshe," he slams out, knowing the words fall silently into the air between them. "_More_, James."

No one else gets this part of Alec. No one else has earned it. Only James has the right to take all the time in the world, every last minute he needs.

James shivers but doesn't slow, keeps moving his fingers in and out of Alec. Visions of black gloves and the curl of his thumb against the palm of his hand are dancing in front of his eyes. He wonders how much Alec would take, if James were offering, and the contemplation stops his breathing for a few moments.

When he manages to draw breath again, he pulls his hand back, adding just a hint of lube so he can slick it over his cock, long teasing twisting strokes that remind him to stay away from the edge. Alec needs to be tormented. And he needs it to happen slowly. James pushes Alec's legs further apart and settles between them.

"Tell me," he whispers.

"Want." Alec closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath and slowly releases it. "The pain. Not the pleasure." He gradually opens his eyes, stares at James with eyes too dark to see clearly. "Cut me more." He bites down on the tip of his tongue as it dares to lick at parched lips. "Fuck me from the inside out."

James guides just the head of his cock into Alec. Slowly -- almost too slow to let Alec feel the burn.

And then he balances one hand on Alec's chest, palm resting over the first line he drew. The other hand grips the knife, and as he slides into Alec, burying his cock within him, he draws another red line across Alec's chest, mirroring the first.

Torture isn't in the lack of speed. Torture would be James moving too fast, not making, no allowing, Alec to savor the pain, taste its sweetness welling up inside him, like phlegm working its way from his lungs. The burn comes, like trying to start a fire with stick and rope frayings, agonizingly slow, charring before it sears.

And then the backdraft, the blade cutting and flooding oxygen to the blaze, as James sinks inside him. Alec nearly breaks his binds, wanting free, to touch, exert control, give in on his terms.

James keeps himself steady, keeps his thrusts slow and even, as he draws the knife down half an inch below that first red line and makes another cut. There's something he's holding back, some part of him that's only watching, isn't _feeling_ yet. The silence in the room is breathtaking, and James knows better than to shatter it now. The silence might be the only thing keeping his hold on his control secure.

_Cut me. Fuck me. Cut me more._ The mantra's only in Alec's head, mouthed silently as his tongue braves parched lips, wetting where moisture cannot be absorbed. It is the blade that binds them in ultimate intimacy. For in that act, Alec commits himself most completely. In letting James touch where no other can touch, he forgives himself the indiscretion of kneeling when he should've run.

When Alec's chest runs red with lines of blood, crimson trickles trailing from one line to another, James puts the knife down and leans over Alec, sharpening the angle of his thrusts as he plants one hand beside Alec's shoulder. His fingertips press against the cuts -- all those beautiful new cuts, _his_ marks, _his_ perfect lines all over Alec -- and he tilts his head back, eyes closing. _"Alec..."_

Possession is a tricky thing. It can mean so much. The exertion of influence as James' fingers command blood from the deep cuts, direct the creation of perfection. Or the mastery of what one controls as James keep Alec on the blade's edge, offering him neither damnation nor salvation. But, most dangerously, it is being dominated by an obsession. And on a Saturday night long ago, Alec grasped for paradise and lost his soul. Tonight, at the tip of blade, he's finding it again.

James' fingers dig in hard, and he runs his free hand down to Alec's hip, holding him there, not letting him move, not even to raise his hips into the gliding pressure of James' thrusts. "Alec," he breathes. There's no more distance, no more chance of his being able to pretend he isn't feeling anything. Alec has always owned his emotions, perhaps more than the rest of him, and the look on James' face -- control giving way to need and hunger; relief and the hope that what they have can be repaired -- is open to Alec's gaze, as is the rest of him. "Mine," James whispers, tightening his hand over Alec's cuts, thrusts just now beginning to go unsteady with the welling need for orgasm. "And yours."

That's all Alec needed to hear. _Mine and yours._ Like the first night. He has James again, and there's not a damned thing going to change that. He jerks at his restraints, wanting desperately to free himself, get his hands on James' body, pull him even deeper. He wants to feel nothing but James. It takes a moment of struggling, then he goes completely still, body compliant and opening.

"Yours, James. No one else's."

James slides a crimson-colored hand over Alec's cock, twisting in fast, steady motions as he gives Alec the last of it. He's too close now, and his eyes are narrowing to slits, vision obscured, but eyes still open for Alec. Always open. "And yours," James whispers, "yours -- Alec--"

Crying out, James presses in for the last time and comes, eyes staying open through all of it.

The blood imprinting on his cock is nearly a serendipity. It's the eyes that push Alec over the edge. Watching blue slip into slate as James keeps his promise. Eyes always open. And he comes with a violence, shudder, and nearly breaks the rope holding him still, its threads cutting into his wrists, filling the room with a new bloodscent as he gives James every nuance of himself.

It takes James several long, gasping seconds to recover. He runs his hands up Alec's sides from his hips to his shoulders, and then moans softly, pulling back. He reaches up to untie Alec's wrists, and settles down at Alec's side.

Alec slowly wraps his arm around James' shoulder, blood oozing from the rope's ligature lines, pulling him in till there's no space between, nothing but flesh on flesh, as it should be when lovers sleep.

James curls himself around Alec, wondering if he should stay on guard overnight, or if Alec will push him out of bed after a while, perhaps allowing James to sleep at his feet. This sense of contentment seems too warm, too inviting to last. But James has learned to take his pleasures where he can over the years, and this is no exception. He exhales against Alec's skin and settles in, ready to appreciate his place at Alec's side for as long as this particular dynamic lasts.

_-end-_

**Author's Note:**

> This was cowritten with [Luna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna), who shared her intriguing and consistently naughty Alec Trevelyan muse with me for it. Luna passed away in March 2010, and is greatly missed.


End file.
